dislocate, dislocate
by Victorian Asylum
Summary: Sometimes the world demands sacrifice. Sometimes it tries to take back what it rightfully owns. Sometimes people are tragedies waiting to happen.


**A/N:** All aboard the sadness train.

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Max has never held a gun before. It's all wrong, too large and heavy and cold in her hand. It doesn't belong there. She has artist's hands, capable of grasping at finer, beautiful things, not this steel calamity waiting to be unleashed. Such an unbelievable mess she finds herself in. Arcadia was never meant to be the end of everything. The gun trembles in her inexperienced hands, so unused to this unnatural little riot. Chloe holds it steady by clutching at Max's wrist, presses the barrel ever steadier in between her brows, keeps it trained to send a bullet right through that wandering mind of hers. "Don't worry," Chloe reassures her. "It has to be this way."

Her eyes are determined, a mix of steel, tenacity and suicidal will. Her sweeping vision of an unmarred town had caught Max offguard, and even though Chloe fumbled through the explanation with wild hands and earnest words, Max still found herself agreeing. They both knew things that made living so much harder than it should be. Things that tore the wool over their eyes to little pieces. But this- this was madness in its purest form. An eye for an eye? No, that's something Max refuses to accept. She won't let Chloe throw her life away like this. All the heroism in the world cannot make Max take the life of the person she holds dearest.

"Things turn out the way they're meant to in the end," Chloe says. Her breathing is fast and shallow, adrenaline forcing a stutter into her words despite the bravery she pushes into them. "Rachel told me that once. It took a while for me to understand."

Max refuses to put her finger on the trigger, but she's knows she'll have to in order to complete the catastrophe. To undue what has been done, right the wrongs of this spiraling, unraveling time line, Chloe must be killed. Anything less, and their home will be wiped off the map. Max makes unwilling eye contact, sees the bravado and the terror, that fear of the unknown. What happens after death? Where does one go? If heaven is real, will whatever god governs it pardon Chloe's sins for this act of selflessness? Max closes her eyes. Her chest hurts. Her eyes are burning with unshed tears. This is not what she wants. This is not how it's supposed to happen.

"I'm sorry," Max says.

She holds out her free hand and starts the cycle over again.

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Max does not want to cry, but this is simply too much. She holds the pillow to her face and screams, clutching at the cloth case. Her shoulders shudder, breath fumbling, and she is positive someone will slam their fists on the door and demand to know why the hell she is making such a racquet at two in the morning. It is still that same fucking day. She has to go back farther, but her head is pounding. She feels as if she has been punched in the stomach. Maybe she can change it with her words? She knows what is coming. Max wants to throw up.

She throws the pillow to the floor and dries her eyes with her sleeves as best as she can. Max has left her string of lanterns on. It is the only source of light in her room. She is restless and alone, and the only person she can talk to is the one person she must stop. She wraps a blanket around herself and leans against the wall. The night passes slowly, and she has far too much time to think.

The day goes as it had before. Chloe appears, they spend the day together, and when the sun sets and they find themselves at the lighthouse, she springs her proposal.

"No." Max will never agree again. She cannot.

"You have to," Chloe presses. "It's the only way to stop all of this."

"I won't." Max shakes her head. "I won't kill you."

"I'd rather it be you. So I can see you one last time."

"I won't!" Max is crying now, fists clenched, voice shaky and pathetic. She needs to be articulate, not petulant, but words are failing her, emotions are winning. She is desperate to make this work on the second try. Chloe draws her in, puts her arms around her. She smells like home, feels like rain after a drought. But it is a bitter relief. Chloe will not back down, never has, not from something she believes to be right. She will find a way, even if it is not ideal. Max has to stop her. She will stop her. Max raises a hand and turns the world back again.

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"You're shoes untied."

Chloe frowns, glancing at the shoe in question as she walks. Her eyebrows furrow and she looks back up. "No it isn't."

Max's hands are in her pockets. They're walking through town, bored and restless. Max has homework that needs to be finished, not that it will matter much if Arcadia Bay gets torn to fucking pieces. An autumn chill whispers in the air, not enough to cause discomfort, just enough to herald the coming cold. "Not yet," she says. She is tired and worn out. She has repeated this day five times now, each as emotionally exhausting as the last. None have turned out well. Everything aches. She'd feel better if someone were to split her skull open. "It will be, in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1."

Right on cue, the laces slip free of their knots, just as they have before. Chloe wears different shoes today, a subtle change, but a change none the less. She stops and looks at the rouge laces with a grin, amazed by the simple prediction. "Max strikes again. She cannot be stopped." She leans down to retie them. "Did you really go back in time just to stop me from tripping on my shoes like an ass?"

"No."

Max's voice gives pause. It is usually soft and hesitant, an arist's voice, meant to captivate, not command. Now it is harsh and succinct, evenly cut, too tired and angry and stressed to deal with this bullshit so many times. Why did Chloe have to decide to be selfless and care about Arcadia. Max rubs at her eyes. She's hardly slept. She's had to listen to Chloe propose death many times. She is wearing thin at the seams and unraveling won't be beautiful. She is growing weary of playing nice, being the devil's advocate. She just wants to save the fucking world. She will not have blood on her hands. Her conscience is heavy enough as it is without guilt and death.

Chloe look at her once, head to toe, and pulls her off to the side, out of the way of the sidewalk traffic. It is a semi-private place and not at all where this kind of conversation should be had. "You've been quiet and sad all day, Max. What's your damage?"

Her hands are on Max's arms and they feel like shackles. "What's your damage?" She says, steeling herself. She is hunched and hurting and this power she's been gifted isn't fun anymore. She doesn't want it. She doesn't want any of it. "I know there's something you want to say, so just say it." Say it so Max can stop her. Say it so Max can make it better. Say it so Max won't have to hear it in her head. Say it so Max can flip shit and hit something. Say it- say it because it's the only thing that can be said.

Chloe's eyes narrow the way they do when she is suspicious. She's catching on. Not that it will matter, because this time won't be different, and Max will rewind anyway. She won't remember. No one ever remembers the mistakes. She leans in, close, close enough that Max's nose could brush her throat, breath quickened against her collarbone. Like they're close friends, or a couple of kids giving PDA all down the marks and not at all like they are about to discuss assisted suicide to stop an imminent vortex. Max can see Chloe swallow. At least she has the decency to look nervous. "I know how to stop that tornado," she begins. Her eyes dance in the softly setting light. Damn her. "I've got a plan. You aren't going to like it, but I've accepted it."

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm going to say."

Max moves to push Chloe away, but her hands falter, lingering over her shoulders. She smells like cheap beer and cigarettes. She could be the poster child for second hand smoke, her whole body smells like carcinogens and nicotine. She has no right to be so honest and heroic and disastrously gorgeous right now. Not like this. "You want me to kill you." Max says. It falls like a stone inside her stomach. Every time she has this conversation it makes the situation realer and realer. Chloe and dying... If Max didn't know better, she'd say it was her destiny. Max won't let this short, withering existence be her legacy. She has so much left to give. So much anger and bitterness and sadness to throw away. There are bridges she needs to burn, and dead girls don't ever learn a thing.

Chloe's grip tightens, expression falling. Any lingering trace of happiness is gone, replaced by a calm reassurance. She almost looks dangerous. "How many times have we done this?"

There are muscles along her neck that work and strain along with the resolute clench of her jaw. Her pulse is fast, Max can see it, just barely, thrumming along. Still coursing. She'll make sure of that. "Too many times." Max closes her eyes. Her head hurts and so does her heart and her bone marrow. "Too many times."

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One time the gun goes off.

Max does not know whose finger pulls the trigger, but it doesn't matter, because there is a hole in Chloe's chest and she isn't talking anymore. It is quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that burns the ears. Chloe looks stunned and she is falling, slowly, as if she is being pulled back into earth's gravity. Max reaches out to steady her, like she just tripped and isn't dying, but Chloe falls through her fingers, flower petals and sand and she collapses into Max's lap. There is blood everywhere. Max shakes her shoulders, flips her over and searches her face, desperate, chest heaving. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" She shakes her head, breath skipping, lungs tight. "Don't do this to me!"

Chloe's eyes are soulless, black holes in the small universe they've created. Her eyelids don't flutter like they should. She isn't smiling, she isn't yelling. Not crying or screaming or speaking or breathing or-

No. No, no, no, nonono. Max's whole body shakes. Chloe is heavy in her arms, too still and young. Extinguished as easily as a candle in a soft breeze. Blood inches across her chest, hollow and alone. "Don't do this to me," Max says, like she can hear her. Like she is still alive. This isn't how it's supposed to be. She didn't mean it. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

She doesn't realize she's rewinding until it feels as if something in her head snaps, and she becomes aware that she is no longer in the same spot. For a moment, the world is black and distant. Then, a pain radiates from her head all the way down her spine, reverberates in her ribs and bones, and her vision clears. Someone is shouting at her. Max is crying. Her nose is bleeding. She's in Chloe's car, and Chloe is calling her name. She looks terrified, eyes wide and bright and full of life. Max would breath a sigh of relief if she didn't feel like she's cracked her chest wide open. The image of Chloe, dead, hopeless, is still fresh. Max reaches to stem her nose but stops. There is still blood all over her hands and clothes. Oh.

"Max, what the actual fuck." Chloe's voice cracks. She looks like she's been hit by a truck, scared and startled and worried and thoroughly confused.

Max touches her forehead with the back of her hand. She can feel the blood dripping into her lap. It's the worst nosebleed she's ever had. She is crying and bleeding and in agony. Her voice fails her. Chloe reaches out, hesitant, grazes her arm. Max jerks away, presses against the car door. She has a full blown migraine, and her heart was just ripped from her chest and then stuffed back in within a matter of seconds. People don't survive like that, that kind of whiplash. The world collapses in on itself and she falls forward. There is a tug on her sweatshirt, a shout, her forehead hits the dashboard.

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There is metal beneath her and birds calling. Max tries to orient herself without opening her eyes. The distant whistle of the train. Someone sighs. She must be in the junk yard, still in Chloe's truck. Time swims for the longest time, but eventually Max pushes herself up and leans against the back. There is a blanket over her and she holds it close. Her fingers are stiff and numb, they don't quite feel as if they belong to her. Chloe is sitting on the edge, legs dangling, head in her hands. There are empty beer bottles. She hasn't moved in a while. The sun is setting, but the light kills Max's eyes. She is a wreck. There aren't enough painkillers in the world for this. "Chloe," she manages, throat dry and raw.

Chloe starts, turns around, and the relief is tangible in her face, a sudden weight lifted. "Oh my god. I thought you were-" She runs a hand over her face, looks like she doesn't believe this is all still real. "I think you really gotta see a doctor, but there was blood all over you and I can't explain that to a doctor. I can't take you anywhere with all that blood everywhere, not home or your dorm. What happened?" There is the unspoken question of when.

"I killed you."

The knowledge dawns with all the subtlety of an atom bomb. There are mushroom clouds in the whites of her eyes and she understands. Chloe knows it is her wish that caused this. Her idea of martyrdom that is destroying Max from the inside out, an unwelcome virus. Max's eyes droop, and Chloe's words are lost. It is simply too much. Her body is giving up. This time, the fall hurts less, not so much a fall from space as a fall from hopes and dreams.

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The room is unfamiliar. The sheets are foreign and smells vaguely of detergent. The only light is cast from a single defiant lamp. Beside her, Chloe is on her stomach, taking up too much space as usual. One arm is slung over Max's chest, protective, a lifeline of sorts. Her hair is a mess and she doesn't look to good. Well, wherever they are, at least the pillow is soft beneath Max's hair. She wonders what day it is, how close they are to the tornado. There is a lump on Max's head, a nice little throb to offset the fact that her head is murder, and she would rather have someone hit her with a golf club. What was the limit of her power? What would happen if she exceeded it? She figures it would probably kill her. It was certainly fucking up her brain. But, she isn't moving today, not now. This is the worst kind of self-help, but she is new to stitching herself back together, and she cannot afford to go to the emergency room.

"You're scaring the fuck outta me, for real," Chloe's voice is thick with sleep, hoarse, which means she's been chain smoking and probably crying too.

"So are you."

"I don't know what to do anymore." The admission is a hard one. Chloe hates weakness, she's always had to be strong, stronger than those around her. She hates asking for help, because that means she is useless and purposeless and she refuses to feel like that ever again. "I'm killing you."

Dying. Max wants to laugh at that. Yeah, that's what she is doing alright, as much as she likes to lie to herself and cover up the truth. It never makes for good art anyway. She is using up everything she has trying to figure out a solution to all this bullshit. It was never supposed to be this hard, trying to find the solutions and answers to goddamn quantum physics. The butterfly effect is pure theory, or at least, it should be. Except it isn't, and the wings are more like fucking jet engines. If she doesn't get this right, a lot of people are going to die, and it won't even matter if she saved herself or not. "There are worse people to be killed by, I think."

Chloe's look is hard and oh, so young. They're kids. Just kids. Too young to feel so hopeless and disenchanted. She looks at home in the soft, fake light. Don't look too close, don't find all the ugly truths and things she can't hide. She's struggling for a place in the world, found her noble intentions at the wrong time. Max has to believe she is meant for something greater than this . She has to, or nothing matters. "I never wanted this," Chloe says. "I just want to save everyone. Instead, I just dicked around and laughed you off. Now here we are."

"Here we are indeed." Max runs a thumb over Chloe's knuckles. She is alive. She is alive. Nothing in the universe is going to change that. Max with break every fundamental law of science to keep it that way.

"I don't know what to do," Chloe repeats. "I don't know how to stop anything and I fucking hate it. No one knows what the fuck is going on." She sits up, clutches at the sheets. She looks ready to throw something. There is violence and anger and sadness in her eyes. Her shirt and jeans have been discarded somewhere. She is gaunt and haunting. Her ribs jut defiantly outwards. She is fragile and worldly and cursed by death. If Max had been in her proper mind, she'd be blushing clear to her ears. But that body could be the key to saving everything. Or, at least, Chole believes it to be. "You're supposed to have all the answers, right? Miss quantum physicist? So tell me how this ends. Tell me."

"I don't know."

"You don't know. Not a single goddamn person fucking-" she rubs at her face, exhales harshly against her hands. Stop. Don't fall apart. Please. "Jesus Christ," she whispers. She gets up, grabs a cigarette and paces around the room. Her outline is only a few shades lighter than the parts of the room untouched by lamplight. One hand seems to permanently in her hair. "I'm not drunk enough for this, man. Fuck me."

Max touches her nose, gingerly, as if it were freshly glued back together. It doesn't hurt, and it's clean, so, small graces, she supposes. How long has she been gone? Has anyone actually missed her, spirited away as she was by her rogue pirate friend? Max sits up a little straighter, props pillows against the headboard and leans back. For all she knows, it could be the early morning hours of Friday, potentially their last day on earth. And they are no closer to stopping any of this or unraveling all of the mysteries. "I get it. You think your predetermined to die. You have a nasty habit of it. But why? Don't you want to live?"

"Duh," Chloe stops, turns around. There is a tattoo on her hip, unrecognizable in the dusk. "I'm fucking terrified, I only act like a brave son of a bitch. I don't- I don't want to die. Ever. Certainly not now, in this pisshole. I'd really appreciate it if you found a way for me to not die. That'd be stellar, y'know." She sounds close to crying. "Still gotta make the world shit itself before my mighty power. So-" her smile is more like a grimace, "no pressure."

"I'm trying to figure this out," Max says, "I'm just tired of saving everyone when I shouldn't have to. Stop making me save you. No more falling on your sword for the greater good. Please. It's not going to end like this. We're not going to end like this."

"Yeah," Chloe agrees. "Yeah."

She hesitates, casts her eyes around the room. It isn't hard, for her to throw away such a deadly ideal. She never wanted it anyway. But, this means she cannot fix things by herself. She can't just drop Arcadia like an empty bottle. Her and the town, they were sown together. They will rise and fall together, and that kind of responsibility is a lot like drinking antifreeze for her. She thought she could wash her hands of this place, laugh it off, shrug it away as if it were water. Getting tied down sits wrong in her throat, acid and salt water. But she'll stay, for the people who've put down roots here and have their vines on her hands. Maybe that's enough. Maybe it's the final nail in Arcadia's coffin. Max is afraid to know.

"Let's get some sleep."


End file.
